Live For Me (Blurred Lines #2)(10)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Now let me talk for a second, Brooke. Stop pouting and show me your pretty smile.”

I couldn’t help it. I gave an involuntary snort. He didn’t even sound like the same man who’d been in the house with me the night before. This guy sounded like the type of dude I had pictured originally. A sunglass-wearing plastic surgery victim with a bevy of inappropriately young chicks on both arms. My lip curled up in disgust.

But Devin heard me. “Is there something you’d like to say, Tiffany?”

I stared back at the house. Its grandeur dominated the coastline. “No.” Then because I couldn’t resist, I added, “You called me.”

“I did. Maybe because in the midst of my ridiculous life I wanted to talk to someone normal. It doesn’t matter.”

Was I normal? His life ridiculous? I supposed both were true.

He definitely had me on speaker. I could hear the woman quite clearly now, like she’d moved in very close to him. “Why did I wear this dress, G Daddy, if you’re not even going to look at me?”

“Then let’s go take it off you,” he said brusquely.

Wow. The shock of his harsh words hit me, my cold fingers slipping on my phone. “I should let you go,” I managed to blurt out. “Is there something specific you wanted? Are you coming back to Richfield?”

There was a pause. “No. I’m not coming back.”

I should have been relieved. Yet I was disappointed. He was a puzzle I couldn’t sort out. The only bit of excitement in an otherwise extremely dull life. “If you change your mind, the doughnuts are here, waiting.”

“You make me feel like a pretentious ass**le.” The “s” is ass**le slurred.

It finally dawned on me that he was drunk. That would explain the random phone call, the weird comments. “I don’t make you feel anything. You do that to yourself.”

He gave a muffled laugh. “I’m glad I left the dog with you. You look so small on the security camera, walking around outside.”

I swallowed hard. So he could see me, at least on the exterior of the house. “I’m fine.”

“I hope so. I find myself worrying about you.”

“That’s nice of you.” Weird. But nice.

“Sometimes I am nice. And sometimes I’m brutally selfish.”

“That doesn’t make you unique.” Then because it was a conversation that couldn’t really go anywhere but weirder still, I added, “I should let you go. I think your friend wants you to herself.”

“Yeah. What do you want, Tiffany?”

I closed my eyes, longing rising in me without warning. I wanted to be loved. Cherished. Cared for. I wanted to matter to someone, anyone. I wanted a guy to look at me and not see what he could get from me, but what he could give to me. Friendship. Companionship. Partnership.

“I want to be alone,” I told him, finally, voice quiet. Firm.

There was truth to it. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

“Then you’re in the right place.”

Opening my eyes again, I watched the wind kick up the waves in the water, big angry bursts of ombre color- black to navy to aqua to white. With the nearest neighbors a half mile down the road, I could fall into the ocean and no one would notice. I could disappear and it would be days before anyone thought to wonder what had happened to me.

Yet for the first time, I was master of my own destiny. No one cared what happened to me, but I did. Here, at Richfield, I could be myself, figure out my future.

“Yeah,” I told him. “You’re right. I am in the right place.”

When I went back inside I decided to give in to my curiosity and explore the house. Ignoring the formal rooms on the first floor I had already glanced in, I went up the stairs, opening bedroom after bedroom door. None were particularly unique or interesting. Just lots of traditional furnishings that matched the New England vibe of the house. The dark wood didn’t look like something that Devin’s ex-wife would choose, but neither did it look like his style. Not that I knew either one of them, but if I had a house, I would think my furniture would reflect my personal style.

Not that I had much style at present, but I’d want a colorful, casual house. Warm. Playful.

In what was most likely the master bedroom, I drew up short in the doorway. There was a doll on the bed. Just sitting there, in the middle of the mountain of pillows. Not an antique doll, but a modern one, styled in a short pink skirt and tight sweater, blonde hair. Amelia had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace so I was exploring alone and after glancing behind me like I might get busted by an invisible person, I took a tentative step forward. Unless Devin had a daughter or a niece I didn’t know about, that doll was creepy as hell.

Picking it up, I brushed the hair back and studied the face. It looked familiar and I figured it had to be some pop culture reference I wasn’t connecting the dots to. I had never owned a doll myself. But then I took a peek at the inside of the sweater and saw the tag was a designer label. Whether real or not, I had no idea. Below that it said, “Special Edition Kadence Doll.”

OMG, it was a f**king doll of his ex-wife. I set it back down, horrified, and whirled around. Movement behind me made me jump until I realized I was just seeing my own reflection in the giant mirror over the dresser.

“Jesus,” I whispered, putting my hand on my chest to steady my breathing. I looked pale, dark eyes huge as they stared back at me. I had pulled my black hair back off my face, but a few wisps had escaped on top, giving me a disheveled look.

And to think for half a second, I’d actually fantasized that maybe Devin Gold found me interesting in an intellectual sort of way.

Maybe some day there would be a guy for me, but it wouldn’t be Rich Dude who dated supermodels and kept a fugly weird-ass doll of his ex-wife on his bed.

For that, I should be grateful.

Yet that didn’t stop me from checking my phone to see if I had missed a call from him or if he had texted.

I hadn’t. He didn’t.

Chapter Four

Jamming a toothpick into a cupcake, I bent over the oven in Devin’s kitchen and carefully assessed the results. Clean. Cupcakes done. Satisfied, I pulled them out with oven mitts and set them to cool. Baking was my new thing, especially at night when the darkness pressed in on me.

Actually, a lot of things were my new things. It had been six weeks since I had moved into Richfield and its blissful silence, and quiet luxury. I had filled my days with dusting, cooking, taking ridiculously long showers, and reading dozens of ebooks. I rode to town on my bike and got groceries and checked out tapes on learning French from the local library. As I started cleaning up the mixing bowl and measuring cups, French filled the room from the DVD I had inserted into the laptop that sat on the desk in the kitchen.